


Lakeside

by benignmilitancy



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, In Water Ending (Silent Hill) - Freeform, POV Multiple, Post-Silent Hill 3, Present Tense, Psychological Horror, Surreal, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benignmilitancy/pseuds/benignmilitancy
Summary: James Sunderland doesn't remember why he'd driven his car into the lake. He can't explain why he was rescued, or what led to his decision, but he clings to the hope that someone will help him piece it together before hell freezes over.---Douglas Cartland swore he'd never set foot in that godforsaken town again. That vow gets tested when Toluca Lake begins freezing in the middle of summer, against all logic and reason, and resurrects the drowned man he'd given up for dead.
Relationships: James Sunderland & Douglas Cartland
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue.**

_"What you see behind me isn't water. It's frost._

_"Late yesterday afternoon in the town of Silent Hill, fisherman Joseph Wylam was angling near this spot over Toluca Lake when his boat capsized, its bow torn on a treacherous patch of rock._

_"Wylam climbed a safety raft and tried to paddle his way to shore. However, when he lowered himself into the water, it wasn't the mild fifty-two degrees as is the average median temperature around this time of year, but a startling eight degrees Farenheit._

_"Wylam suffered immediate shock and would have drowned had it not been for the intervention of his boating partner. Unfortunately, this wasn't enough to save him, as he later passed at Kindred Hospital of complications brought on by aggravated hypothermia. Wylam was fifty-six years old at the time and had no known next-of-kin. The partner, who prefers to remain anonymous, is expected to be discharged with a clean bill of health._

_"Today, a light sheen of frost has laid across the entire lake surface, and is solidifying even as I speak with no apparent signs of stopping. As you can see, various forms of wildlife have fled the area._

_"To say this is bizarre is an understatement, baffled locals claim. Researchers brought in to study Toluca Lake have called it the strangest phenomenon they've witnessed in years. Although they cannot yet determine why, they hypothesize the rock that overturned Wylam's boat may have been, in fact, a detached ice floe._

_"We'll bring you more details as this investigation continues."_

* * *

James Sunderland, who was declared missing along with his wife Mary in June of 1994, shivers in the thick vapor blanket paramedics have draped over his shoulders. The lake's sediment and composite minerals have bleached his hair a sickly bluish green. 

Moisture caresses his grayed flesh. He's sat in the water for so long that most of his clothes have unraveled at the seams. His right jacket sleeve curls on the ground beside him, dwelling in the puddle he grows with the droplets he sheds.

They're attempting to pry the shell of a broken boat from an old vehicle. James watches machinery crack open the crushed and sodden remains of a teal Chrysler, watches flotsam spill over the pavement in a wash of decay, and asks whose car that is.

Yours, Mr. Sunderland.

James blinks, readjusting his swollen eyes to sunlight. Liquid overflows and runs down his gaunt, wrinkled cheeks, pinkened by blood. 

I don't remember.

An EMT pulls down his lower eyelid, shining a beam directly into his socket. The iris takes a moment to get fixated, and the pupil's dilation response time is rather delayed. 

What day is it? James asks.

Tuesday.

He nods, as if the answer holds some meaning.

One paramedic nudges the other. We've got to get this man to a hospital.

It's 2002. Commute thins as the roads wind through the hills. The firs surrounding the neighboring valleys sweep low, burying their roots deep within the slopes.

For a town whose reputation hinges on misfortune, this morning proves an extraordinarily rare and beautiful exception. Clear skies shine while local flora bursts with the green blossom of summer. 

No mist radiates from Toluca Lake; today it resembles a placid mirror, reflecting the passing houses and various boats drifting on its surface. Police cruisers keep sentry for miles along its circumference, where officers standing before fluttering tape deny access to disappointed tourists.

The town basks in August beauty while ice creeps and crackles over the surface of the lake.

* * *

_"Since yesterday, more floes have emerged, bewildering residents and investigators alike._

_"Despite the torrid weather, a thin sheet of ice has completely covered the lake and appears to be expanding outward, reaching an estimated speed of 0.48 inches per hour. Where this ice came from, and why it has started a push, remain to be seen. Right now, those who live close to the shore are urged to evacuate inland until the state withdraws its declaration of emergency._

_"The invasion appears to show no signs of slowing down. Here at Rosewater Park, brickwork and parts of the observation deck have already been claimed by ice. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to keep my balance on the slick ground, and you can feel the rapid plunge in temperature the closer you approach._

_"All traffic to and from Silent Hill has been gridlocked for the time being."_


	2. Chapter 2

**1.**

_Will you reach heaven unassisted?  
Or must corpses point the path,  
Blind eyes glimpsing gold?_

* * *

Another face swims in. 

"Mr. Sunderland: Dr. Takuma again. I know how worn out you must be from the tests you've endured today. Rest assured, we won't keep you for much longer. Before we let you go, though, there is one last thing we must test." 

"I need to go home."

"This will move much faster with your cooperation." 

The laminated card clipped to the breast pocket claims his name is Robert Takuma. When James observes his face, he sees no connection. Certainly there are pieces that constitute an identity, eyes, nose, and mouth, but no underlying thread stitches them together. They float in a loose amalgamation without coherence or meaning. A mannequin of clothed limbs perches on the stool before him.

"Now, this exercise may seem rather silly and childish on the surface, but it will reveal quite a bit about the nature of your condition. With these flashcards, I will show you a series of illustrations. You tell me which is correct about them. Ready?" He interprets James' silence as consent and raises the first card. "Man or woman?"

James dwells in wordlessness before murmuring, "Woman."

"Why?"

"It's wearing high heels."

"Mm." The card settles in Takuma's lap, replaced by another. "Old or young?"

"Old."

"Why?"

"Cane."

"Good." Hands shuffle the deck. "Blonde or brunette?"

Silence.

"Blonde or brunette, Mr. Sunderland?"

"…I don't know." 

"We'll circle back to that," Takuma says. "Which of these is not wearing glasses?" 

He chooses the left.

"Point to the figure with a green shirt."

He complies.

"Heart tattoo on the bicep."

That, too.

"Smiling?"

They're treating him like a child.

"If you would, please list three differences between these faces."

He stares at the twin cards. They aren't illustrations but Polaroids. In his left hand, Takuma holds an enlarged facsimile of the photo he keeps in his wallet. 

Kept; the lake stole it from him. Where Toluca's minerals leached its color and the water crumbled its grain to dust, the image burns clearly, seared into his mind by the radiant thuribles of the fluorescents burning around them. 

In a world where most faces elude him, she shines, clear and lucent. 

The other hand shows a horrendously different woman. Pustules swell and blister her complexion like globules of ancient film burning to a close. Melting into a wax grotesquery of herself, deprived of her outer beauty, never abandoning her smile. 

The whisper crawls from his vocal cords. "Why do you have pictures of my wife?" A cold trickle forms on the back of his neck as the doctor rises. "No— Who gave you those?"

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Sunderland."

* * *

Damn it, what kind of game do they think they're playing? They've kept him penned in here for way too long. Locking him in a dim room like this, it's insane. More than insane. It's criminal. Mary's coming home tomorrow. He can't be languishing in the hospital himself.

Confined to a padded mattress, James glances down his arm. Gray, waterlogged skin bundles a loose blanket of flesh over atrophied muscles, showing veins and bones in disgustingly salient detail. Blue vessels weave a fine net over his flesh. IVs have blossomed grotesque bruises along its expanse. 

Crushing his lips together, James tears the adhesive. The needle he extracts stings like hell, bringing a startling smatter of crimson to the surface. 

Monitors scream, a noise he extinguishes by pulling the cord. No need to alert the nurses.

His head throbs as he wheels his bare feet onto the tile.

God, he's exhausted.

In the corner stands a bureau. Rising on unsteady knees, he shambles toward it. 

Swinging the door open, he finds a bright silver square staring back at him. He opts to ignore it as he bends down to put on what remains of his clothes. They've taken his jacket, but at least the undershirt doesn't feel too damp when he slips his arm through the sleeve.

First things first. He's got to find a payphone and call his father. He doesn't want to impose on Frank, but he harbors a faint hope that he might have a spare key to their apartment so he can let Mary inside, allowing her to get settled in with her new nurse. 

Hell, he'll pay, if that's what his father wants. Frank will protest anything for family; it's more to ease James' mind. He can't have Mary waiting out in the hall. 

Tomorrow, he resolves. He'll straighten this out then. Tell his good Samaritans thank you even though he can't stay. Board a bus for North Ashfield. 

The prospect of travel makes him nervous. Mary can hardly stand as it is, and… Well. St. Jerome's can't loan her a wheelchair her insurance won't cover. 

She could lean on the wall, he supposes, try to slumber out his arrival, but can he gamble on the landlord allowing her to loiter there? Besides, her circulation's poor. Her hands and feet swell with fluid. Even though he finds himself sweating in this balmy air, she'd shiver. 

His head sags on its neck. James indulges a new habit he's formed since being admitted and slowly, deliberately pops his knuckles one at a time. His hands have become skeletal, corded things he doesn't recognize; the water has eroded the muscle and fat that used to reside beneath the skin.

Air pockets crackle the joints as he depresses, with long, thin fingers tapering into chalk-white nailbeds. He doesn't feel them. These can't be his. These are borrowed from someone else, a pair of gloves he's forced to wear, coated in small nicks and gouges.

( _woodgrain biting into his flesh when he grips the_ )

He raises his head to face his reflection. 

They alleged this was his as well. All of these unsolicited gifts offered him, as though he had to be introduced as a guest to his own body. 

The staff hadn't taken too kindly to his refusals. The first time, they insisted. The second, he grew agitated. _Please put that away._ He'd made his request clear after the numerous hours they'd spent poking and prodding him to ensure his mind remained intact. His patience had worn thin in worry over how long they were keeping him from Mary. 

Wasn't a little disorientation after a car accident to be expected? How many more hoops did they want him to jump? He's healthy, isn't he? 

( _more than she'll ever be_ ) 

The third, he lunged to snatch the mirror from the nurse, but missed. Instead, he wound up knocking it out of her hand, accidentally shattering glass in the process. 

James froze when the pieces scattered diamonds across the tiles. Disembodied parts flooded the floor. Eyes, lips, ears. Nothing adding up. 

The moment he realized what he'd done, a shameful heat suffused his cheeks, pricking needles under his skin. _Look at yourself,_ he thought, the irony of his inability only pushing the thorns deeper. _You're acting like a child. What would Mary think?_

James gives empty gaze to the glass, the impostor on the other side mirroring his languid movements. Watched by a mask he cannot remove. The eyes that track him aren't really his own. Two broken-bottle green irises. Not too deep. Too shallow. 

Fingers uncertain, he traces the contours of this alien terrain, starting from the bridge of his nose downwards, into the dip of his Cupid's bow. The soft streams of breath he releases through his nostrils tickle him. 

A thin sheet of epidermis stretched over musculature, bone, and cartilage. It feels too dead an inheritance to claim. 

As he watches this strange reflection mimic his movements, he suffers a dark but fleeting impulse to harm it. If he hooked his dirty nails into the flesh and peeled away his doppelganger's false mask, shed his snake's skin layer by layer, there may be a chance he'd reveal something truer underneath.

( _or maybe  
you would find nothing_)


End file.
